


New Car Smell Bonus Content

by systemscheck



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Mech Preg (Transformers), Sticky Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Transformer Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:34:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemscheck/pseuds/systemscheck
Summary: Random scenes from an AU ofan AU by DesdemonaKaylose and neveralarch. I don't think anyone in their right mind would even recognise what's going on here without having read at least the basics of Banners, but welcome to rarepairthreesome baby land. Rung is a Decepticon, Megatron issufferingand Starscream is still the prettiest person in the room.1. Rung fucks (Explicit)2. Megatron's boobs (Gen)3. Starscream sucks (Gen)etc.
Relationships: Megatron/Rung/Starscream (Transformers)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Child Support

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to dez for letting me impregnate Megatron in her 'verse.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Dubious consent in the sense that pregnancy makes a character feel compelled to have sex.

When Rung comes home, Megatron has already gone to bed.

Rung is mildly disappointed. He'd made an effort to end the last meeting of the day on time, asking Deadlock to send him the leftover patient files with the intention to look them over the weekend. That Megatron didn’t have anyone to talk to all day however, is more concerning. With Starscream off-planet resolving a diplomatic crisis and Rung overseeing the construction of an extension to the neurology wing, neither of them are really available to keep him company during this time of medical leave.

Rung switches the lights on to illuminate the unusually messy living room. Datapads and blueprints of what looked like future stage sets are strewn everywhere. It looks like a combiner had rifled through their things and stomped on them for good measure too. 

He spies a broken stylus laid atop the energon dispenser, the broken tip leaking mercury onto the floor. Rung goes over to pick it up and just happens to tread onto a datapad. He picks it up and to his relief it isn’t damaged, but the furious scribbles that show up when he powers it on are worrying. Megatron’s handwriting is so bad as to be nearly illegible. He seems to have had been working on a new duty roster only to abandon the task halfway through, which is even more uncharacteristic.

Going to join Megatron in their room, Rung takes care to settle down as quietly as possible. Megatron’s optics still light up the moment Rung stretches out beside him.

“Sorry,” Rung mutters, trying to make himself comfortable. Megatron grunts. “I’m still awake,” Megatron says. “How was work? Did anyone torque you?”

“Not particularly. The new batch of trainees is very eager to learn. And oh, I had a carrier come into my clinic by mistake—did you know there’s another practitioner called Wrung?—and we had a lovely conversation. It’s so exciting to think that our sparklings will probably attend school together.”

“I’m not sure if they will feel the same, after finding out that the conjunx you were talking about is me.”

Rung playfully swats at Megatron, who sighs and easily intercepts his fist. Megatron lowers Rung’s hand gently back down onto the cool surface of the recharge slab. A custom order from the Constructicons, it’s specially sized for three. Megatron had been too embarrassed at the time to accept the gift but at times like this, Rung is grateful that Starscream insisted on taking it anyway. The slab feels like a solid, tangible reminder of the life he has built for himself and the people he cares about, and its contact points send delicious zaps of energy into Rung’s circuitry when he spreads out on it. 

“Don’t be silly,” Rung says after he had stopped laughing. “You’d be surprised at how ready everyone is to move on. I don’t want to make overt simplifications, but the Autobots did nearly all the same things as us, didn’t they? Just under a differently-coloured banner.”

Megatron makes a vague noise of assent. Rung scoots closer and wraps his arm around Megatron’s side. He loves how carrying has softened Megatron’s normally over-intense field and made him so warm, what with the heat output from internal construction going on. And with exposure to external fields crucial to neospark development, Megatron has had no choice but to become far more tolerant of cuddle sessions. 

This time however, Megatron tenses at Rung’s touch.

“Rung, don’t--” Megatron calls out, too late. 

The familiar snick of Megatron’s panel sliding back resounds in the dark. Rung abruptly registers the warm gush of lubricant spilling against the plating of his thigh. Megatron bodily shoves Rung aside and swings his legs over the edge of the recharge slab, glistening valve still on display. He presses a hand at the space between his legs, obviously mortified. At this level of arousal, trying to close his panel again is impossible. 

“I--I’d go wash up,” he tells Rung, only to be restrained by the small hand that closes around his wrist.

“Stay with me,” Rung says. 

Megatron doesn’t give. Still, neither does he pull away.

“You’ve had a long day,” Megatron mumbles instead. “Go recharge.”

“I can’t sleep knowing that you’re feeling this way,” Rung answers, implacable.

“You don’t understand--it’s been bothering me a lot more recently. I couldn’t keep my hands off my array the entire day.” Megatron makes this admission in a low, desperate voice. Rung wishes that he’d taken the time to call home earlier. Being confined to the house must be hard on Megatron, and especially when Soundwave has insisted on reliving Megatron from most of his duties. 

This close, he see that Megatron is shaking, stress and embarrassment forming a toxic combination of stimuli. 

“Darling, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Rung says. “But isn’t heightened sensitivity another aspect of carrying? I think the pamphlets said something about this, and what you’re experiencing is perfectly normal. I’m hardly going to judge you on changes happening beyond your control.”

Megatron growls, and this is when Rung suddenly realises that he has stumbled upon the real thing Megatron is getting worked up over. The loss of control. For someone who’d fought so hard to win autonomy for himself and everyone else unfairly boxed in by the caste system, being betrayed by his own frame must be uniquely terrifying.

“Sit down,” Rung coaxes and draws away. He won’t press the issue if Megatron really doesn’t want to be touched, but Megatron has obviously reached the stage where fluid support is necessary. He’s in need. Rung wants, so badly, to help him, but he can recognise when a person is hanging by a thread. 

Megatron stares at him. The wariness in his field is so raw that tasting it nearly hurts, and Rung has to ball his hands into fists to prevent himself from offering a hug.

“You don’t mind,” Megatron says, more questioningly than Rung would like.

“Not at all, yes.”

“You can cancel your morning briefing and talk with Ratchet,” Megatron goes on to ask. His optics are so dim. 

“Sure,” Rung says. 

Megatron nods. “Okay,” he says, and spreads his legs. 

Rung moves to kneel in front of him, resting his hands across the top of the other mech’s knee guards.

“I could eat out your valve,” Rung suggests. “Or would you prefer my hands?”

Megatron’s throat cabling flexes, catching the weak wash of light that comes in from the window. “The former.”

Rung takes a moment to wipe the fog off his glasses. Megatron’s running even hotter than usual, and sitting in the area between his legs is nearly stifling. Producing this level of heat must feel even more uncomfortable. After this Rung is going to run a cold bath for him, make Megatron sit under the solvent spray while Rung works on massaging the kinked cables in his legs.

Rung leans in and attempts to be as gentle as he can. He licks upwards in slow, firm strokes, steadily working towards the glowing node. Letting his tongue graze against it still results in a kick that sends Rung reeling back across the room. Rung scrambles upright, venting heavily.

“I’m alright,” he says before Megatron can feel even more guilty.

Megatron’s optics flash amber anyway. “Maybe we should just go to sleep,” he says, but the arousal is still roiling his field. 

Rung can feel the lubricant drying on his chin, cold and tacky. Rung wishes they’d discussed the physical realities of carrying more thoroughly in advance.

The heady mix of anticipation and joy that accompanied the news may have masked how difficult this process truly is. He’s ashamed to find out that Megatron has been struggling alone, unwilling to articulate these issues. This is entirely typical for someone who cherished his independence but definitely not when he’s responsible for the well-being of a sparkling. Their sparkling, to be specific. 

Rung doesn’t feel the least bad for invoking Megatron’s protocols against himself.

This time round, Rung deliberately restrains himself. He blows relatively cooler air against Megatron’s slick valve, fascinated by how even this minor stimulus made the aperture shudder open and dilate. A thick thread of lubricant leaks out and puddles onto the tarp underneath.  
Rung circles his thumb around the rim of Megatron’s valve. His thighs shift apart minutely. 

“Is this okay?” Rung asks carefully.

Megatron nods. Pressing the other fingers of his hand against Megatron’s entrance doesn’t invite further violence, and so Rung bravely delves inside.

Tension bleeds out of Megatron’s heavy frame in time with the gentle thrusts of Rung’s hand. Megatron is steadily grinding back down with each stroke, optics half-dim and hazy. Before long, Rung’s fingers are caught in the hot grip of an overloading valve. Yet more lubricant gushes onto the berth, coating its surface in a translucent sheen. 

Rung notes that the desire suffusing Megatron’s field hasn’t lessened at all. 

He splays his hands upon Megatron’s chestplate. His closed panel is microns away from making contact with Megatron’s bared array, bleeding heat like a supernova.

“Would you like to be penetrated?” Rung knows that Megatron isn’t quite ready to make demands, but his own code compels him to ask. 

It still feels a little odd to experience an instinctive surge of satisfaction when Megatron says yes. Megatron’s engine howls when he extends directly into the other mech, and Rung rubs at the glowing node his spike doesn’t quite reach.

Rung has had spiked Megatron before, obviously, and it has always been an eminently enjoyable experience. Now that he’s carrying, however, the sheer responsiveness of his frame is astounding. The greedy clench of Megatron’s inner mechanisms around Rung’s equipment instantly knocks those previous memories down a notch or two. Simply angling his equipment to target the sensor-rich section of mesh earns Rung a series of delightful gasps and Megatron hiking his legs up to scoop Rung closer, ensuring that nothing separates their frames besides the metallic slide of friction.

Megatron’s arms came up to hold him as Rung overloads as if to pull Rung deeper inside himself, taking in every last drop of transfluid spilling inside his frame. Has Rung imagined it or did he release more than usual, just like the medical texts had promised? He comes and comes and finally collapses atop the generous expanse of Megatron’s frame, helm resting on the plating just above the other mech’s spark chamber. He’s still inside Megatron. 

“Can you hear it?” Rung asks. Megatron squeezes his hand. “Hear what,” he mumbles. 

In the darkened room, the noise of mechanical operating systems is seemingly amplified: cooling fans whining as they wind down. The creak of Megatron’s joints as he shifts his weight. And then there is the new, unfamiliar sound of creation, of Megatron’s internal construction module getting busy with Rung’s nanites. Rung thinks he could listen to it all day. 

Megatron is already asleep. Rung resolves to tell him in the morning.


	2. The Sleep of Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact did you know that the upper limit of a robot infant's vocal range would probably cause our ears to bleed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter update! Introducing Cygnus of Polyhex, future terror on the aerial racing circuit and now a mere metal tic tac.

Cygnus begins bawling immediately after being laid down on the cot. With great difficulty, Megatron ignores the twinge in his spark and walks away. 

He turns back even before he can reach the doorway. Cygnus is making enough noise that Megatron actually leans down to check if the artisan-smelted material Starscream had insisted on shelling out on hasn’t turned into lava in the twenty second he’d taken his eyes off it.

"This is a very nice recharge slab," Megatron says, reproachfully. "Do try to appreciate it."

Cygnus doesn’t care. The insulation sheet Megatron had tucked under his chin has been pushed aside so that his stubby arms can reach out and grasp for comfort. Until now, Cygnus has never slept alone. Their nightly routine had always ended with him being brought along to the room Megatron shares with Rung and Starscream, and he loves snuggling among the big warm grown-up frames. 

He doesn’t love being left alone as much. Cygnus howls and howls and howls and generally demonstrates that a lack of speech processing capabilities doesn’t impede communication one whit. His legs are free of the sheet now and twitch frantically. Combined with his flailing arms, he looks very much like he’s having a seizure. Megatron doesn’t sense anything wrong with him, physically speaking, from their bond and so resists the urge to scoop up the baby in his arms. 

"Shhh, I'll be back, I promise." Megatron strokes one thinly-plated cheek with his thumb, wiping away the accumulated washer fluid. Rung said they should try leaving him alone for ten minutes at a time, increasing the duration until Cygnus learnt he could survive even when Megatron was out of sight long enough to actually sleep. 

The sparkling's enormous optics track Megatron's departure with obvious hurt. 

Megatron grumpily crawls into bed with Rung. Starscream is still inside the washracks conducting his five-stage wingcare routine. 

"I don't like this," Megatron mutters quietly. Rung had been the one who'd suggested starting teaching Cygnus to be left alone, since Megatron does intend to return to work at the theatre, eventually. They have to start somewhere. Still, Megatron hadn't envisioned letting go so early.

Starscream joins them with a bit of elbow jabbing and shin kicking to make space for himself. Megatron magnanimously resists the urge to swat at one of his obnoxious, shiny wings.

"Is this ever going to end?" Starscream sounds like he wants to go and make sure. 

“Ten minutes,” Rung says primly. 

Then they all lie on the big berth like identical tightly wound coils of tension as the pitch of the crying climbs and climbs. Megatron is sure his audials are going to burst. Why didn’t they make the room soundproof? What if Cygnus never ever stops and his adult frame turns out to be a siren? Whatever shape his sparkling takes Megatron would love, but a siren is a little much. 

Exactly three minutes and seventeen point five seconds pass before Megatron gives in. The berth creaks as he levers himself off and leaves the room. 

“We’re never going to make it through the night,” Starscream grumbles to Rung, who merely shushes him. 

When Megatron returns, Cygnus is still crying in his arms. 

“This was a bad idea,” Megatron remarks. His field is permeated with tiredness but carrier protocols won’t let him shut down until Cygnus is appeased. 

Starscream tries, and then Rung tries, but there seems to be no calming the sparkling down. Cygnus trashes and sobs like a thing possessed, rolling around the berth and banging into their sides with tiny pings. 

“He should have come with a mute button,” Starscream sighs. “I don’t know what else to call such a egregious design flaw.”

“Maybe keep this in mind next time it’s your turn,” Megatron says acidly. Before the argument can properly get underway, Rung decides to intervene. He picks up Cygnus and pushes him into Megatron’s hands. 

“Try getting him to siphon,” Rung says, recalling an old caretaking text. Sparklings siphon for comfort nearly as much as the actual fuel. 

Megatron purses his mouth but then again it wasn’t like he has any better ideas. Looking supremely skeptical, he initiates the transformation sequence to unfold his taps. Cygnus immediately latches onto a nozzle and soon the glug-glug-glug of refined energon going down his intake replaces that awful din. Peace reigns once more on Cybertron. 

“Cranky little tin can,” Megatron says, rubbing the side of Cygnus’ helm. The sparkling continues feeding like a starved creature even though they had fuelled him not two hours ago, fists pillowed on the smooth translucent swell of Megatron’s dispensers. He’s so attractive like this, reclining with the sacs of protoform grown swollen and heavy on his chest.

Starscream smiles despite his earlier assholery and reaches out to stroke down the back of Cygnus’ frame. The sparkling wriggled in delight. Rung feels like his spark is light enough to float right out of his chest.


	3. Flight of F-15s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream just wants his baby to be the bestest baby who ever babied.

Tiny rotor blades are starting to unfold from Cygnus’ plating. 

They may be a very, very long way from getting him airborne, but Starscream's isn't discouraged from trying to get some flight time in. Using two hands to support his midsection, he holds the sparkling vertically and spins him around the room, making exceedingly stupid whooshing noises all the while. 

“Who’s going to lay waste to his enemies from the air? Yes, you are! You are!” 

Cygnus shrieks happily as Starscream flips him upside down. His visor is a brilliant gold that glows even brighter when excited, and right now he’s having the time of his extremely short life.

Starscream becomes more daring when Cygnus seems like he doesn’t mind being subjected to centripetal forces strong enough to make adult mechs purge. He claps his little hands when Starscream demonstrates a particular aerial manoeuvre Rung remembers from countless bombing runs he’d watched footage of after, city-wide raids that ended with thousands dead and a sky filled with smoke and fire. 

Cygnus has no idea what any of them have done. In his selfish, private moments, Rung wishes he never will. Right now Starscream is just being a source of amusement for this precious, beloved sparkling. The Decepticon Air Commander’s tenure had been marked by shocking cruelty and sadism, but there’s none of this as he gently taps Cygnus’ windscreen with blue-tipped claws. 

Rung had seen these dagger-sharp claws tear out more than one Autobot’s spark. His spark spins wildly as he watches the sparkling laugh brightly, feet kicking. Cygnus doesn’t know anything. 

Starscream notices Rung staring and turns to him. His wings have dipped in concern.

“He’s getting so big,” Rung comments, in lieu of saying anything on his mind. 

Starscream beams proudly. “Helis develop more quickly,” he answers. “It’s part of having to support a higher-performance engine. I think I can bring him to get navigation lights next vorn - flying at night will be more dangerous if he can’t be seen. Just so you know, it’s an important step for fliers.”

“Mmm, I’ll tell Megatron to clear his schedule,” Rung says. They could make an outing out of this milestone; gather together to celebrate Cygnus’ new function. Maybe Starscream would even like to invite his trine to witness the occasion. Stationed on the newly reactivated Moonbase Two, Thundercracker and Skywarp haven’t seen Cygnus since he was able to fit in a palm. Looking up Moonbase activity on his datapad, Rung nearly misses what Starscream says next.

Starscream tries setting Cygnus down on the sofa, with the key word being ‘try’. The sparkling remains stubbornly magnetised to his frame. Starscream says, like it’s the most natural way to continue their conversation, “Maybe we can look into weapon loadouts for his particular model. They’d have to be significantly lighter than what I myself carry, but Wheeljack can work something out.” 

Starscream’s gaze is turned towards the sparkling clinging onto his cockpit. He doesn’t see Rung’s face, but the flare in his field is enough to make Starscream straighten, sharply. Cygnus nearly falls off him.

“What is it?” Starscream demands. Sensing the sudden tension in the room, Cygnus has fallen silent. The baby rotors twitch on his back.

Rung’s fingers flex on the armrests of his chair. He clasps them together on his lap. He carefully does not look at Starscream in the eye. 

“I - I don’t feel quite well,” Rung says. It isn’t a lie. He knows how Starscream doesn’t truly believe that they’re at peace, how Starscream recharges with blasters rattling around in subspace. Coming to terms with the end of the war has been hard for everyone, but even more so for people who had been living and breathing the conflict like the purest nitro booster. Starscream thinks that giving his sparkling enough firepower to level buildings is on par with navigation lights because to him, both are necessary for its safety. 

“Okay,” Starscream says, not sounding entirely convinced. “Were we being too loud? You could go and lie down for a while.”

“That - that sounds like a good idea,” Rung manages to say. He stands up, fuel pump hammering in his chest. The pistons in his legs are primed to run, but where? The war is everywhere. 

As Rung shuts the door to the berthroom, he can hear Starscream’s voice.

“I won’t always be around,” he says. Cygnus babbles unintelligible agreement. “You have to take care of yourself. Take care of Rung, too. If anything happens to him I will come back and haunt you personally.”

Rung switches off the lights in the room. He takes off his glasses and sets them aside. 

He doesn’t feel very reassured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Starscream's visit, Wheeljack etches onto the wall of his workshop _you must be THIS tall to get hellfire missiles_ and a picture of Metroplex.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be uploading the other chapters later. There's more stuff in the works that isn't listed, and by Rung will I finish them! The main fic where Megatron actually has the fucking baby is undergoing heavy (hah) revisions so I have literally no clue when it will be ready to be expelled into the world :3c 
> 
> You get a Rodimus star for having the courage to click on this thing. Lemme know what you think!


End file.
